Force Energon
by vikung-fu
Summary: From the bowels of a dying world comes the heart of an empire blacker than any Destron. An attempt at trying to facilitate the deeply flawed Star Wars Transformers line into Micron and Super Link continuity.
1. Chapter 1

**WITNESS TO A FUNERAL**

The dead planet turned slowly in the dark skies, illuminated only by the occasional flare of eruption upon its barren steel surface. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, the colossal planet had once burnt across the skies of the smaller, older worlds about it, instilling fear and blotting life out wherever it travelled. The heart that had fuelled it had burnt brighter than any sun and the trenches that traversed its now solemn surface had been alive with mechanical activity.

Standing on that chill surface now Darklore could feel nothing for the history of the iconic world, his heart hardened and his mind indifferent to the dreams the world had crushed with its single eye. There was no concept in the Destron's understanding that could appreciate the extent of the horror that had sprung up in the wake of the monster planet, so disinterested was he in carbon-based life. All he cared for was the simple fact that, like any other world, the cold surface of the dead planet still betrayed signs of a weakly beating Energon heart.

At his feet the pack of Command Jaguars continued to tear into the surface of the planet, peeling open the skin to reveal the darker workings within. Deftly, Darklore entered, passing into the guts of the planet and past rows of Dinobots, both normal and magma incarnations and tireless Chromehorns, all burrowing deep into the planet, eyes shimmering with eager anticipation at the reclamation of its burning heart as Shadowhawks circled high above.

Whilst not entirely pure Destrons, the Terrocons were as useful a tool as any and their skills were evenly matched enough to allow Darklore and his fringe Destrons to continue their gatherings undetected upon the fringe of planet Seibertron's original universe and the universe shaped by the rogue Quintesson, Alpha Q.

The year was 2005, one year after the destruction of Unicron and Galvatron-sama's translation into the central star of the new universe. One year in which Darklore and his fellow Destrons had shied from the probes and sensors of the Cybertron armada, struggling to preserve their way of life and the dignity that kept the dark purple badge of their political and moral affiliation burnt upon their armour.

His fists clenched when he reflected on the year of bitterness they had endured. True it was a remarkably small amount of time to bear a grudge, at least in respect to Destron traditions but Darklore was not one to wait patiently. Having been ignored in both the Unicron Battles and Galvatron's siege upon Siebertron he was eager to prove that, in the absence of any real central Destron power, his faction was powerful and significant enough to take centre stage as the prime representatives of Destron ascendancy.

His black heart quickened as he descended further into the depths of the planet, gliding deeper into its structure and passing increasingly complex structures obviously designed to facilitate smaller carbon-based lifeforms. If his indifference had not been so all encompassing then the Destron warrior might have paused to consider what sort of empire, carbon-based or non, could be powerful enough to construct such a world but, as it was, he passed by all the achievements of that forgotten imperial glory without interest.

From within the aged world he felt the stirrings of that weak heart, its fading power calling out to him. In an instant he shifted his limbs, transforming into his secondary jet mode and diving further towards the centre and the call of that weak heart.

Miles of labyrinthine structure passed him without comment, as did the scurrilously working Terrorcons, each one hastening to or retreating from the heart of the planet. The voice of the heart and of his destiny became louder and more urgent. The boosters in his rear flared blue and erupted in shimmering light as he tore deeper into the mechanism of the planet, approaching a sacred central chamber at the very heart. Rising up through the whole planet was a central tower connected to the outer levels by myriad walkways designed for smaller feet.

Darklore crashed through the walkways and dived directly down, the flaring, liquid heart of the planet from which the central tower rose now visible. Gathered about it were stuttering Terrorcons of all four families, their backs adorned with shimmering green Energon stars.  
The Destron transformed, his giant feet landing upon the shore of the shining liquid light that comprised the world's heart.

"Energon..." He whispered softly.

And yet the Energon that swirled within the core of the dead world was foreign to him. He recognised and acknowledged its calling, as did the Terrorcons, yet the substance and aura of the shimmering oceans of light were thoroughly alien to him. His heart began to beat faster, his limbs trembling as he reached out a shaking hand towards the churning surface of the planet heart. The Energon stirred as he drew closer, growing ever more violent as slowly his fingers reached out and brushed the surface of the heart.

The Energon erupted, spraying across his armour in specks of burning light. Desperately he tried to recoil only to find his hand held in an iron grip. The pounding of his heart fell deathly silent and he turned his dark red eyes down towards the surface of the heart and his own outstretched arm.

Wrapped about his wrist was a glistening black hand, powerful and immaculate. He struggled to pull away, desperate to free himself from the thing that had slumbered within the heart of the planet. Without thinking he tore the blaster from his side and began to fire mindlessly, its muzzle igniting in blurs of translucent light that crashed against the surface of the Energon with no effect.

From deep beneath the waves a solemn figure rose; head smoothed and eyes colossal and hollow. Darklore screamed out in horror as the figure stretched out, Energon running down the deep lines of the masque and pouring from his vast structure as his wings unfolded behind him.

From beneath the masque issued forth harsh, rasping breath, a machine desirous once more of the memory of a very different life. He pulled Darklore close to him, dragging the whimpering Destron into the flowing seas of Energon that burning brighter than the heart of any planet before it.

"Who wakes me from my sleep?" The solemn figure whispered, drawing the trembling warrior ever closer to him.

Darklore's eyes widened in horror, the ghost of almost breath upon his cold metal face. In disgust and awe, the Destron realised that there was something horrifically human about the proud warrior he had awoken beneath the waves of Energon.

"Your servant's name is...Darklore...my lord." He gasped.

"Darklore..." The warrior answered softly, his heard turning and surveying the scurrying Terrorcons. "I don't know you, do I?"

"No, my lord, in truth you do not." The Destron answered, only too pleased to be free of the taint of the other's ghost breath.

"What of the Emperor, Darklore? Where is my master?" The warrior mused, his voice so soft that the other struggled to hear his words.

"G-Galvatron-sama has perished, my lord!" Darklore cried out, his sorrow more for his own current situation than the fate of Galvatron.

The warrior tightened his grip upon Darklore's arm and the Destron yelped in pain, falling to his knees in the seas of burning Energon.

"I know no Galvatron, Darklore; you will do well not to test my patience further." He grumbled.

"My lord!" Darklore gasped. "My lord, I swear I do not wish to deceive you! Of this Emperor of who you speak I know nothing. Only of Galvatron-sama, lord and master of the Destron Empire."

"Empire..." The warrior hissed with sudden delight. "Yes, Darklore, _Empire_." He lifted his head and looked up towards the towering insides of the lost planet. "There is but one Empire, Darklore and the Empire had but one master."

He turned his head down towards the struggling Destron once more, his masque expressionless.

"Go now, Darklore, let me grant you peace and tranquillity, the sparks of your presence have burnt brighter in these moments in which you have served me than at any other time in your pitiful existence. Go now and be reborn."

Darklore screamed out in horror as the unknown warrior forced him deep within the churning oceans of Energon. His mouth filled with the alien light and it flowed within him, overriding the mechanics of his life and swamping his spark with its ancient power.

His limbs went numb and his eyes flickered once and then faded, metal flesh turning momentarily black before reconfiguring itself beneath the influence of that aged light. From beneath the waters he rose once more, the memory and spirit of his former life washed away in the ebbs and tides of the Energon about him.

He bowed, his own masqued face as expressionless as that of his ancient mentor.

"What is thy bidding, my master?" The former Destron warrior whispered softly, eyes of an almost human quality moving within his reconfigured skull.

"Empire." The older warrior announced, striding from the Energon heart. "I have but one desire, Grievous; the desire for Empire"

The other bowed once more.

"As you wish, Vader-sama."

The elder machine glanced once more at the lofty heights of the planet and its detailed pathways leading to the outside. Without a second word he transformed, his metal flesh reconstructed as the most advanced starcraft of its time. Tearing ever upwards the ancient warrior broke through the surface and sliced his way across the stars once more, reborn and rejuvenated.

Grievous turned towards his Terrorcons and they howled their support, Shadowhawks swooping down and gathering the Jaguars up in their claws as they ascended after their new leader. Silently he lifted himself into the air, joining amongst the rapturous Terrocons in pursuit of their new master and his dreams of empire.

In the silent skies the dead world grumbled once more with life and from it the Terrorcons and their masters spread amongst the stars and towards the distant world of Siebertron.


	2. Chapter 2

**CITY UNDER SIEGE**

Fortress was unique amongst her peers. Whilst her body was independent of outside influence, her head and, by default, her personality, were made by communion with the Micron Cerebros. In turn, she also transformed to become the head of the Cybertron warrior, Fortress Maximus. This curious communion of combination sparks afforded Maximus a unique position amongst his fellow Cybertrons.

In the absence of both Professor Jones and Rad-kun, Fortress had found herself stationed within the heart of Seibertron, overseeing the slumbering presence of the planet's soul, Primus. It was not a task to which she felt inclined but one that she fulfilled none-the-less. Perhaps more so than others, Fortress was more than aware of how her role and decisions affected others.

Her diodes tensed, a sudden sense of dread rising within her as the central terminal suddenly erupted in light and sound, flashing up warnings in both of the main Seibertronian dialects in addition to several Earth languages.

Panic rose to the forefront of her mind as the terminal spewed forth detailed descriptions and code signals of the approaching armada. Her eyes fixed upon the two mystery signals at the eye of the storm and quietly she exhaled a single terrified breath. She turned away from the primary screen and focused on the vast monitor banks detailing the advance of stars across the heavens. Each and every screen was crowded with Terrorcons. In the distance there was the terrifying rumble of onslaught and in her heart Fortress felt the solemn acceptance of the end of peace.

* * *

The ancient metal groaned in protest, the slumbering deity at its core whispering sleep sodden regrets and protests as the opening bombardments of a new era of warfare dawned in the dark skies over its mechanical geography. Deep within the lower levels of the planet's prison quarter the Destron master of Crystalocution, Banzai-Tron, waited patiently, his dark passions held barely in restraint as the walls of his confinement rattled about him. 

The explosions grew louder and louder still, the key to his confinement growing ever closer. He waited, his breath held within his cold chest as another explosion struck the surface and another and another. Moments passed, the merest fractions of seconds, each one drawn out in painful and absurd lengths.

From above there came another explosion, one closer and of such ferocity that it almost threw him from his feet. Instead he used the momentum of the explosion to leap forwards, striking out against the door at its weakest point and shattering the human fabricated PlastiSteel to shreds.

His heart pounding in his chest, he raced out into the corridor, side-stepping blaster bolts with deft ease and striking out with timed precision. The first Cybertron fell but two steps from his cell door, the second at four and the third at six. Within moments he was at the door, ploughing his fists through the reinforced material and breaking out into the wider prison complex, the stuttering, pale bodies of Cybertron guards turning deathly black behind him.

The complex was in chaos, alight with fire and blaster bolts that stained both walls and prisoners alike. He did not tarry, his arms thrown back behind him as he darted with stealth through the ranks of his frenzied fellow prisoners and their desperate captors. He had no time for the weak and the stupid, those without strategy and stealth would soon fall once more beneath the gaoler's might and he certainly did not plan to remain with them. Let them be his distraction, useless and senseless pawns that would raise him up to his former glory once more.  
He ascended, rising through level after level of chaos, unbeatable and unstoppable, his metal heart throbbing with the desperation that being so near to freedom inspired. He reached out, so close to the final hurdle, his hydraulic tendons tightening as he tensed his hands, ready to strike out against the final Cybertron sentries that barred his path. If his Micron companion, Razor-Sharp, had been at his side then the task would have been infinitely swifter but Razor-Sharp had not been destined to know freedom again.

The dim memory of Razor-Sharp's struggling protest as he had forced the Micron between him and the oncoming Cybertron blaster bolts in order to facilitate his own escape flickered across his mind. He dismissed it swiftly and without emotion, forcing himself to focus only upon those in the present.

With an unbidden cry he fell forwards and faltered as another collided with him, one head and shoulders above him in height and with a face of stern determination.

He staggered back, glancing once at the powerful shoulders and the detestable Cybertron indicia glistening with smears of black oil.

"Wing Sabre!" He spat with contempt.

The younger Cybertron nodded, carefully extending his own fists and circling the renegade Destron.

"I wouldn't let you leave this gaol, Banzai-Tron." He whispered; his voice firm and unyielding.

The Destron's face creased in a cruel, spiteful grin. "You lack the strength to stop me, Cybertron"

"You couldn't beat me last time." Wing Sabre reminded him, his pale green eyes shimmering with mischievous light.

With a roar of fury, Banzai-Tron launched himself into the air, raising his fists high and joining them together as his palms snapped open and specs of Energon gathered in the air, tiny particles of the vital universal thread that sustained all life massing into a gradually expanding ball of energy. Instinctively Wing Sabre ducked and dived forwards, slamming his shoulder into Banzai-Tron's side and knocking the Destron renegade out of the air and into the PlasiSteel wall. The Energon ball flittered and disappeared fading once more into its component particles, starved of the Destron's focused attention. In rage Banzai-Tron struggled to his feet only to meet with Wing Sabre's fist as it rose in a sweeping uppercut lifting him high off of the ground and sending him spiralling into the floor.

His body screamed in pain, oil and fluid filling his mouth between the cracks of his broken teeth. Frustration and anger flooded every fibre of his being, he had trained his body for so long, focused so hard on increasing his strength and power and all for nothing. Despite his dedication to Crystalocution and his faith in technique and power he had been defeated by a mere Cybertron gaoler. His body tensed and his eyes glinted with hatred as he waited for the final blow from his rival.

Moments passed and nothing happened. Slowly he lifted his head and felt the first spark of surprise and delight. Kneeling before him was Wing Sabre, his body trembling and eyes unfocused. Driven through the Cybertron's right shoulder was the cold, sharp Energon blade of a shimmering red star-sabre. Unable to believe his fortune, Banzai-Tron quickly glanced up at the blade's owner and froze in fear.

Towering over the Cybertron was a warrior not quite Destron nor exactly carbon-based. Much like the despised Maximal Faction, there were traces of organic material, particularly the weak, watering eyes that hid behind the cold Destron masque covering its metal skull. And yet there was something chillingly familiar about the posture and the nature of the warrior that had rescued him from a return from imprisonment.

"Darklore?" He whispered, unable to keep the note of awe from his voice. "Darklore, is that you?"

The warrior nodded slowly as if indifferent to the Cybertron impaled upon his blade.

"Grievous is my name now, Banzai-Tron." He rasped back, his voice containing haunting echoes of the departed Destron's own.

"W-What happened to you?" The other gasped, shakily rising to his feet.

"My master requires strong warriors." The sickeningly organic eyes narrowed as he spoke. "I can see I was wrong in searching you out, Banzai-Tron."

"M-Megatron-sama has been revived?" Banzai-Tron gasped.

Grievous shook his head slowly although his impatience was all too transparent in the waters of his eyes.

"My master's name is Vader-sama." He replied simply, unquestioningly.

"And what manner of Destron is this Vader-sama?" Banzai-Tron asked quickly.

"My master is no Destron. He does not need the badge of such doomed politics to crush the Cybertrons. My master is empire incarnate; there need be no faith other than in his power."

Banzai-Tron staggered forwards and placed a firm hand on the wrist that still held the star-sabre imbedded in Wing Sabre's shoulder.

"Take me to your master, Darklore. Let me prove my worth!" He whispered with desperation.

Grievous' eyes narrowed once more.

"If you fail him, you may wish you had remained here in the pit of captivity." The former Destron announced simply.

"If I fail to prove my worth," Banzai-Tron said carefully. "Then I shall at least die with honour."

"Death will not be an option for you. You may find that, over time, you may become transformed." His harsh voice broke and he sounded almost like Darklore once more. "Banzai-Tron; there is more to Energon than any of us ever knew...so much more."

The Destron dug his fingers into Grievous' wrist more insistently.

"Take me to your master, Darklore. Let me prove myself." He repeated.

Grievous' watery eyes remained on him for a moment longer and then slowly, he reached down and flicked a switch upon the hilt of his star-sabre. With a snap-hiss, the blade sputtered and disappeared into faint traces of Energon. With nothing left to hold him up, Wing Sabre slumped forwards and crashed face down to the cold floor.

With disinterest Grievous turned away.

"Follow me. My master is gathering his troops even as we speak." He said simply and, without waiting, transformed, his back arching and his limbs outstretching as his new metal flesh flowed seamlessly from robot form to archaic wheel-bike.

At high speed he tore away through the ruins of the Cybertron gaol, leaving Banzai-Tron to fly after him, his own vehicle mode sacrificed the day he had dedicated himself to Crystalocution and its focus on perfection of form.

In the swarmed skies above the warring world the Shadowhawks and their masters gathered, ever watchful as the planet of Seibertron beneath, once more descended into violence.


	3. Chapter 3

**CONFRONTATION**

Char looked about the gathering of his fellow Cybertrons with more than a little distaste. The ease with which the rogue Destrons had broken through their defences and liberated a vast multitude of the planet's fiercest criminals caused him no end of grief. Things had been slack since the fall of Galvatron, a fact he was not above throwing in the faces of all and sundry who confronted him on the issue; he'd expected it to end like this but there was no telling the younger generation, they simply wouldn't listen.

With barely concealed contempt he folded his arms across his chest and lifted his head.

"I told you it was only a matter of time." He announced, his voice travelling clearly across the room and his blue optics flashing with anger. "I told you the Destrons weren't going to just roll over and give up, with or without Galvatron."

Wing Sabre stepped forwards, his balance slightly off and his hand clutching the shoulder wound that was slowly, achingly repairing itself. He opened his mouth to bite off a reply just as Fortress Maximus stepped between them, his serious face contorted in an expression of pained understanding.

"None of us could have predicated this new breed of Destron, Char." He said softly, his voice wavering with the weight of troubled emotion that filled his very being.

Char scoffed and turned away.

"I beg to differ." He murmured. "You know what I've always said; _the past is the greatest teacher_. We should have known the Destrons would get stronger, just the same as they did last time. That's evolution."

"You're wrong." Wing Sabre snapped. "It's not evolution; it's war. We couldn't have predicted the Destrons, shattered and in hiding, would make the kind of technological leap that would produce the kind of warriors we saw here today. None of us predicated that and no amount of looking at the past could have helped us prepare for that. These new Destrons...they're not Seibertronian."

"Listen to yourself." Char snarled. "Not Seibertronian, my rear diodes. Of course they're Seibertronian! All Transformer life is Seibertronian..." He paused and turned, an expression of distaste falling over his lined face. "Unless you want to start telling me that you're one of these Maximal barbarians."

"Of course not!" Wing Sabre shouted back. "I, above all of us here, understand the power of Primus, certainly more so than you, Char! When I was on the brink of death it was Primus that reached out for me and gave me this new form...but this old-fashioned thinking of yours, this insistence on calling him a god makes no sense. He's a Seibertronian, just like you me, perhaps he's the oldest Seibertronian but he's still a Seibertronian! He's not some god to be worshipped and feared but an equal, the supreme scientific benefactor of us all."

"You're not speaking sense, boy." Char muttered and turned away again but his voice had become uncertain and clouded with doubt.  
It was hard for Char to remain firm in the beliefs of his aged programming. He had seen the world descend into centuries of violence and uprising from which it still remained unable to rise above. He had been created in a time before Destron and Cybertron existed, when only Transformer was significant. It was difficult to maintain the faith and ideals that had been instilled in him as a youth when centuries of warfare and the advance of science had stripped away so many of the peripheral items of his faith. All he could do to maintain dedicated was to deny that which, in his heart, he had long since doubted.

Maximus reached out for him, placing a firm hand upon his shoulder.

"Char, listen to us for a moment." The younger Cybertron said calmly. "This isn't about faith; it's about settling this situation so we don't suffer a full-scale relapse."

Char shrugged free and strode meaningfully towards the door, pausing briefly to look back and glare at Wing Sabre.

"Whatever you say, Maximus. But I'm not taking any of this as an excuse for negligence. When Convoy gets back..."

Maximus straightened visibly.

"We're not waiting for Convoy to return." He said firmly.

Char turned fully around to look at the younger Cybertron commander. He glanced swiftly at Wing Sabre, who looked as bewildered as he felt, then at the other startled Cybertrons furthest from him.

"What do you mean you're not waiting for Convoy?" He demanded.

"We don't have time." Maximus answered simply. "We need an edge if we're to prepare ourselves against these new Destrons. We're not going to get that by waiting for Team Convoy to complete their mission."

"Just what exactly are you saying here, Maximus?" Char snapped.

Maximus sighed heavily and turned away, looking up at the giant screen that filled the furthest wall behind the other gathered Cybertrons. The distant stars and planets of Earth's galaxy looked so peaceful from this distance, he reflected.

"Several cycles ago, before the Destron attack on Iacon, we received a transmission from a small-time neutralist bounty hunter identifying himself as Jango Fett. This bounty hunter apparently has some interesting information and a set of co-ordinates detailing the location of an inactive and ancient Transformer. We don't know anything more than that but, considering everything that's come into play recently; I personally don't believe we can afford to turn our backs on this.If there's any chance than this ancient Transformer might be able to impart information that can somehow give us an advantage then we have to take it."

"How ancient are we talking here?" Char asked cautiously.

"Older than all of us here if this bounty hunter's word is anything to go by." Maximus replied.

Char scoffed.

"And you're willing to go racing off on some fool's errand just on the say so of a bounty hunter? I thought you had more sense than that, Maximus."

"This bounty hunter..." Maximus said carefully, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Wasn't from Seibertron, Char. There's something about him...he's certainly a Transformer...but he's not like _us_."

Anger flashed across Char's face once more.

"We're back to this Maximal non-Seibertron nonsense again are we?" He scoffed, shooting an accusing glare at Wing Sabre. "Look, Maximus, I'm old enough to know what I'm talking about and I've seen countless worlds populated by all kinds of mechanical life-forms and each one of those worlds has had some trace of Transformer origin. Things like that don't happen, there has to be a spark, a _presence _to awaken the process."

"I'm not arguing with you about sparks, Char!" Maximus called back, his voice raising. "I'm saying that I don't think this bounty hunter, this Jango Fett, has a _Seibertronian _spark. I think he's a Transformer, certainly, but I think his spark is carbon based."

"What are you talking about?" Char whispered, his tone suddenly both hostile and fearful.

"I'm saying that something out that reformatted a carbon based life-form into a Transformer. Something out there is _making _Transformers."

There was silence for a moment and then Char turned away once more.

"When do you leave?" He questioned softly.

"In less than two cycles." Maximus replied.

Char nodded.

"I'll be there." He answered firmly and stepped forwards, the doors sliding open before him.

He paused for a moment, glancing back at Fortress Maximus and his fellow Cybertrons and then turned away as the doors closed once again.


	4. Chapter 4

**UNWELCOME VISITORS **

Snarl was decidedly displeased. The snow settled on the matted synth-organic fur of his back, fading into water that seeped through onto his thick metallic skin. His lips curled with distaste and he shook the moisture free, trails of water and ice falling from his body and leaving tiny pits in the pristine white.

In the distance, one of the carbon-based pack animals that humans had once used howled into the night, lonely and afraid.

Of the two things Snarl disliked the most, snow was one and waiting was the other.

Along with his compatriots, Dreadwing and Overbite, Snarl was a member of the Predator Attack Team; a unique cadre of fringe Microns, their sparks awakened by the brush of a malignant Destron presence. Yet despite the ferocity of their reputation, they had been given the unenviable task of waiting in the bitter cold for the arrival of a larger Destron taskforce of questionable motives.

They had been given no timeframe nor any indication of how many soldiers would be arriving, all they had been told was that their presence was required.

The pack animal yowled in loneliness once more and then abruptly, the cry turned to startled terror and the earth resounded with a heavy thud as a dark shadow fell from the snowy heavens and tore it apart. The stink of blood filled the air and Snarl widened his nostrils, taking in the scent with all the disinterest of a cultured yet jaded predator.

"It would appear that Dreadwing at the very least has found ample sport." A calm voice whispered at his side.

Snarl turned his head marginally to see the dark shadow of Overbite's animal form against the pale snow.

"At least someone is." Snarl remarked with displeasure.

Overbite lifted his nose to the wind, his wide nostrils spreading and then collapsing as he drew the scent of the recent kill deep within his olfactory processors.

"So it would appear." Overbite replied in a guarded fashion, cautiously refraining from expressing his jealousy.

There was silence for a moment with only the scent of blood and the howl of the wind between them.

"I hate this place." Snarl mused darkly, glaring into the heavy snow that fell about them and the ice that crystallised amongst his fur.

A sudden flash of light illuminated the heavens above them, its trail burning brightly through the ice blue and falling snow. Both Destrons lifted their heads, teeth barred at the sight.

"A meteorite?" Overbite questioned hesitantly.

Snarl shook his head from side to side.

"That's no meteorite." He whispered. "That's a _ship_."

* * *

Kicker watching the trailing star-lines scarred across the velvet of the vacuum. It had been several months since he had seen either Seibertron or Earth, several months amongst the cold emptiness of space and the savage life cycles and bellowing winds of foreign worlds.

He no longer felt the stifling fear of the cosmos that had so punctuated his childhood but neither could he confess to being entirely comfortable with the conditions the varied mechanical members of Team Convoy took for granted for great swathes of time.

He folded his arms across his chest, sighing more from boredom than unrest.

The ship suddenly shuddered violently, throwing him across the bridge and into the side of Roadbuster's leg, the blurred star-lines fading into the seeming stillness of normal space, marking their exit from hyperspace.

"What on Seibertron's name was that?" Hot Shot cried, racing past them and slamming his large metal hands onto the towering console miles above Kicker's head.

"We seem to have been caught in an interdiction field, sir!" Called out one of the Omnicons.

"What the hell's that?" Kicker shouted in an agitated voice, pushing away from Roadbuster and crossing the difference to the centre of the bridge again.

"It's a field generated on a certain frequency that acts like a hyperspace magnet, effectively pulling any craft passing through hyperspace back into the relative co-ordinates in normal space that the field originates from. They require massive amounts of Energon to power and are prone to self-destruction, making them a somewhat less-than-desirable choice for anyone but the most assured of military commanders." A voice called from behind, the doors of the bridge lift sliding closed.

Both Kicker and Roadbuster turned to see Rodimus Convoy, resplendent in the dim, emergency lights that the shuddering damage of the _Miranda II_'s exit from hyperspace had inflicted.

Hot Shot glanced up from his position amongst the crew area, his hands still moving over the terminal before him and the vast screen turned from the view of the scattered stars to a detailed map of their co-ordinates.

Framed awkwardly at the furthest points of the screen were two large triangles flashing a dulcet red colour and spreading waves out from the co-ordinates they occupied.

"There's the source of our interdiction field." Rodimus mused solemnly.

Kicker looked from the two massive robots standing next to him and down to the crew pit where Hot Shot stood amongst the Omnicons.

"Is there anything we can do to break free of the field?" Kicker questioned anxiously.

Rodimus shook his head in a slow, measured movement.

"Not this time. We can either edge slowly back the way we came or we can crawl forward at impulse speed and see if we can knock out whatever those two craft generating the field are."

"They must be hulks." Hot Shot remarked. "Any aggressive force would have launched…"

The words died in his throat as several waves of smaller dots separated from the two triangles, spreading out like pollen from blossoming flowers.

"Switch to main screen! All hands on deck!" Rodimus cried, diving forwards to the nearest terminal.

Kicker swiftly slipped the helmet he carried over his head, the faint fear of atmospheric decompression as a result of damage clawing at the back of his mind.

The screen filled with the image of ancient and worn craft, each one different from the last though all were unified by a common theme. They crowded out the stars, some with central circular pods like a single human eye caught between four wings arrayed in an X formation, others with the narrow nose of a snubfighter bracketed between straight walls or sharp forward aiming points.

"What are they?" Kicker asked, his lips curling in disgust at the armada's poor aesthetic appearance.

"I've never seen their component parts before but during the war we called their kind _uglies_: ships or even, in some terrible cases, Transformers who were cobbled together from the remnants and debris of a number of damaged parts." Rodimus said carefully.

"They certainly live up to their name." Kicker remarked.

"That they do." The old warrior nodded sagely.

He set his jaw and turned away from the screen once more.

"Hot Shot, inform Convoy of the situation and get Sprung and Wheeljack to meet me in airlock #5." He turned around and looked directly at the Cybertron next to him. "Roadbuster, you're with me. We're going to engage those _uglies_ and see just how much of a repair bill we can give them."

"I'm coming with you!" Kicker proclaimed.

Roadbuster looked down at his younger companion.

"Kicker, I…" he began to protest.

The boy kicked him hard in the leg and headed off in the direction of the lift.

"Don't argue. Let's go!" He shouted back over his shoulder.

Rodimus smiled and placed a hand on the other Cybertron's shoulder. Roadbuster sighed and followed in the young boy's wake.

* * *

Char watched the curved shape of the bounty hunter's vehicle mode as he led the way ahead. The large view-screen in the impromptu bridge area within Fortress Maximus was not of the quality usually used on Seibertronian vessels but it was adequate. The whole area had been created out of necessity rather than design, a reminder of the Cybertron Headmasters' long return voyage to Siebertron from Planet Master all those years ago.

Momentarily he moved his eyes from the screen to scrutinise Fortress, standing with her back to him and her own eyes trained intently on the shape of the bounty hunter ahead.

Before their departure, the bounty hunter had indicated their destination as a world named Hoth, a world all but barren of indigenous life but rich in secrets, at least if Jango Fett was to be believed.

"We're almost at our destination." The bounty hunter's voice rasped through the bridge communicators. "Another click and we'll be within the bounds of the Hoth system."

"Affirmative." Called back the disembodied voice of Fortress Maximus' combined form. "We're right behind you, Jango."

The bounty hunter made no reply but simply continued to move forwards. Ahead of them, a small white sphere appeared in the horizon-less skies and, further beyond that, a dim and distant sun.

The size of the world grew with every leap further into the system they moved. The cold sun seemed to remain distant and foreboding. Solemnly he watched as the craft ahead dipped down and plunged forwards, diving through the clouds of the planet's atmosphere.

Without pause Fortress Maximus followed and within, Char felt his sense of foreboding crystallise within him.

"I've got a bad feeling about this." He whispered quietly to himself.

Ahead, Jango Fett continued to dive deeper through the clouds and towards the planet's pale white surface.


End file.
